Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
by Captain Frankle
Summary: Sherlock makes a deal with his current boss, Moriarty. If Sherlock, the Red Riding Hood Serial Killer, finds the Big Bad Wolf in a week, he wins. If he loses? That's not an option. Serial Killer AU. Warning; Blood, murder, gore. Eventual Sherlock/John.
1. Red Riding Hood

**WARNING; Blood, murder, gore, stuff of that nature. Be careful and don't say I didn't warn you. Something a little different. I don't own any of the Sherlock Holmes characters.**

Sherlock clasped his head in frustration, blood streaking down his face as his hand fell to his side.

"Why must you be so difficult?' he asked Lucinda Browne as she panted on the floor, 'We could've done this the easy way but no. Idiot."

He threw his hand in the air with that comment as casually as one might swat away a fly. Lucinda was breathing hard, the bruises on her face seeming to darken with every second that passed in the now silent, abandoned train. She was sat up against one of the seats, her hand clasping the now blood-stained fabric.

"I...I just thought...' she said, voice hoarse, 'That you would-"

"That I would what?' the man hissed, his usually calm demeanor letting out the demon that dwelled inside of him, the one that he was only paid to let out, 'Spare your life? Let you go free because of your feelings, your emotions? I'm not that kind of man, _Lucinda_."

Sherlock spat out the name as if it was poison on his tongue and Lucinda let out a gasp as his foot connected harshly with her already beaten stomach.

"I...I'm sorry,' she wheezed out, coughing up a splattering of blood that fell from her lips onto the floor, 'Please...please Sherlock...please let me go? I promise, I won't tell anyone, I'm sorry!"

Sherlock leaned in close to Lucinda, so close that he could feel her metallic breath ghosting across his face. His eyes softened a little as tears of hope welled up in hers.

"And give up on the grand prize? I don't think so."

He produced a knife from his back pocket, holding it affectionately in his left hand. Lucinda whimpered.

"It's such a shame,' he whispered, right hand coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb caressing her purple cheek, 'Such a pretty girl. No wonder he wanted revenge."

"Who-"

Before she could ask, Lucinda's neck was flowing red creating a flowing cape of crimson down her back. Sherlock threw the knife back and held her face in place, watching as the light left her pupils. He loved to watch people in their last moments, their faces pleading him for a salvation he couldn't give them now. He saw the betrayal, the realisation and finally the true despair that overcame them before their pupils closed.

Once Lucinda's life was definitely gone, he worked quickly. He lay the body down, waiting for a thick pool of blood to form around them before taking out his trusty riding crop. Carefully, he spread the red over the floor, the crop forming thick lines leading from the neck to a spot just above the victim's knees. Once he was done, he made sure to clean up any other evidence that he had ever been there. The advantage of being a genius was knowing that you could only ever be tracked by one and there was no-one like Sherlock Holmes, the Red Riding Hood serial killer.

"What do you mean no?' Sherlock yelled, causing him to be restrained by the guards Moriarty was constantly flanked by, 'It can't all be gone..."

"Look,' Moriarty said from his throne that had somehow been set up in the abandoned warehouse he had agreed to meet Sherlock in, 'There are a lot of people desperate for coke these days Sherlock. You must've known that you're not the only one. You're a genius, aren't you?"

He smiled mockingly as Sherlock struggled against the henchmen, pleased with the reaction.

"Tell you what Sherly,' he said, waving the guards away but not before they pushed Sherlock to the ground, 'Play a game with me."

Sherlock held back his panting as his ears pricked up. He waited to get his breath back before he responded.

"What kind of game?' he asked, cautious but intrigued.

"You must've heard of the Big Bad Wolf?' Moriarty asked lazily, examining his nails slowly

"Of course I have,' he replied, remembering the grizzly pictures of this particularly gruesome serial killer's work, 'I have to be aware of my competition."

"Well, I hired him,' Moriarty said, laughing as Sherlock let out a groan of frustration, 'Don't be like that, I have a lot of people I need to get back at. Speaking of that, how's our good friend Lucinda?"

"Surely you've seen the pictures?' Sherlock asked, pleased with his work.

It had been played on the news on an almost continuous loop, warning people about strangers and boosting Sherlock's already inflated ego.

"Yes, I just wanted all the details, not just a recall of the stupid capes dummy' he replied in a way that would've sounded affectionate if Sherlock knew better than to believe that Moriarty possessed anything close to affection for him, 'But anyway, concerning our wolf-y friend. If you work out who he is in the next week, I'll double your cut. If not, maybe you'll have to find out what happens when you're trying to get clean."

Sherlock gulped internally. He didn't want to try to go through that process again.

"So, am I clear?' Moriarty asked.

"Crystal,' Sherlock ground out through his teeth.

"Oh, and one more thing,' Moriarty said, leaving his chair, crouching in front of Sherlock and grabbing his jaw tightly with his hand, 'I'll give you a clue, just to get you started. He's somewhere in London. It wouldn't be fair to send little Sherly out on his own without any knowledge."

Moriarty then pulled out a wedge of twenty pound notes, stuffing them into Sherlock's trouser pocket slowly and making him feel gradually more and more uncomfortable. Angry Moriarty, scary Moriarty, Sherlock knew how to deal with those. Quiet, almost predator Moriarty, he was less sure of.

"Just to tide you over dear,' he whispered into Sherlock's ear, 'Now fuck off."

As if a switch had turned on in Sherlock's head, he stood up and ran out of there. He only had a week to find this Big Bad Wolf and he was going to do it, Moriarty be damned.

He ran back to his apartment, slid his key into the door and moved quickly to one of the many filing cabinets stacked up in his room. He opened it, quickly flicking to the section labeled B. He pulled out the file for the Big Bad Wolf and began reading. He flicked through the newspaper clippings, internet conspiracy articles and photographs depicting the victims. All of them had been killed through disembowelment. All parts of the intestine were sprayed across the floor forming surprisingly neat lines leading out of the flesh. However, the more disturbing thing about these deaths were the obvious bite marks on both the body and innards of the victims. Sherlock found he had a sick fascination with these images; as artful with the intestines as he was with blood and a riding crop. He smiled to himself as he lay out all the evidence.

"Now, we just need to wait for you to make a mistake,' he thought to himself.

**A/N; Please leave a review if you liked it. I'm not sure whether to carry on so feedback would be good to hear, good OR constructive - CF**


	2. Meet John

**Warning; More descriptions of murder scenes, although not as many as the first chapter.**

Sherlock had a particular way of 'working'. First, he would get close to his victim. This usually wasn't particularly hard seeing as he could bring up a certain amount of charm whenever he needed it, despite his naturally cold personality. Once he had gotten to know them and they had 'gotten to know' him, he would initiate the second phrase of his plan; Seduction. It wasn't hard when you looked as exotic as Sherlock, all pale angles and dark curls that he was. People seemed drawn to him in a way that was incredibly useful for someone who killed for others. It wasn't hard to bring his victims in to his fantastical world, they welcomed the change. He just needed to send them a few wanton glances, turning his head away at the last minute or whisper a few low words into their neck or ear and he would know that he was in. The third part was where he actually began to have fun. He would turn them into a paranoid wreck. Most of the people he had to deal with had some kind of business with Moriarty and were therefore constantly looking over their shoulder anyway. Sherlock just fed that paranoia that had already begun to feast on their instincts until he went through with the fourth phase, the murder itself. Now that was the best part. Leading them somewhere, telling them he would keep them safe from their fears. He was careful to never give up the fact that he worked for Moriarty. He was an anonymous face to nearly everyone who did a deal with him. It was all connections, all whispers. Sherlock wasn't even sure if the Moriarty he knew was the real one but an elaborate trick to give a face to a criminal empire. Once the victim was away from the real world, he began to really work.

It was almost too easy for Sherlock to proceed with this way of working with the ordinary people that Moriarty seemed to send him after. Maybe he liked to see someone as bored as he was. That's why he was beginning to feel excited. This Big Bad Wolf as he was called was different from the others. Sherlock looked through all of his files and couldn't see any kind of pattern between them. Of course, Moriarty had hired him so previously he must have been acting of his own accord (any criminal that gets hired to kill Britain goes through Moriarty at some point). There was no correlation between the dead either. Some were male, some were female, they were of all nationalities, ages, social standing. There was no kind of demographic that he was working to, making it hard to judge what kind of mistake he would make.

Sherlock was entirely fascinated, to say the least. He poured over the information in his room in 221B Baker street, the house that provided him with a 'secret' base to work from. He had been looking at pictures well into the early morning, drawing up a board of locations, any possible connections, newspaper clippings, anything he could find of the man, only pausing to take a small nap around six in the morning.

Sherlock was pouring over his 'work' when there was a soft knock at the door.

"Sherlock, come out here and introduce yourself,' Mrs Hudson shouted through the door, 'I've found you a flat share!"

Sherlock stopped running his eyes over the work. He had been planning to ignore Mrs Hudson, his land lady, and hope she thought he wasn't in but on the word 'flat share', he instantly ran over to the door, throwing his dressing gown over the photos just before he opened the door.

"I didn't ask for a flat share,' he said, looking at down at her with a puzzled expression before observing the man stood next to her.

He was quite short, only being a little taller than Mrs Hudson herself. His sandy blonde hair was tousled as if he hadn't slept well, along with dark circles almost encompassing his blue eyes. His hand rested heavily on a black cane. He stood up straight when he realised that Sherlock was looking at him. Ex-army then.

"No, you left a letter on my desk the other day saying that you were looking for one,' she said, looking at him with a confused gaze, 'It said you needed one right away."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Moriarty enjoyed playing with him, it seemed that he had wanted to make this game a little harder. Adding in an extra person to avoid would make it ever so slightly more difficult to leave the house at every minute of the day but this man seemed to be quite normal. Once he saw Sherlock's real personality, he would leave him alone.

Sherlock sniffed, trying to look as imposing as he could while wearing only his pyjamas.

"Very well then,' he said and the man gave him a small smile in thanks.

He held out his hand.

"John Watson,' he said in a pleasant voice.

Sherlock took his hand and shook it quickly and firmly.

"Sherlock Holmes,' he said quietly, surprised when John tightened his grip as he spoke, 'Mrs Hudson will show you around."

With that, he let go and closed the door as quickly as possible, praying to something that John Watson would be able to avoid John Watson until he disappeared from his life completely.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't so lucky. It was six O'clock, about five hours after John had arrived when Sherlock saw him again. Sherlock needed to grab one of his books from the lounge, a particularly detailed one about natural poisons and antidotes that his brother had bought him for his sixteenth birthday just as an interesting present, not realising how fascinating Sherlock would really find it. He left his room and abruptly stopped when he heard noises coming from the lounge. He entered, only to see John Watson sat in the arm chair that Moriarty tended to use whenever he came to visit, reading the very book that Sherlock was after. He seemed to have heard Sherlock approach and, as such, turned around to give him a proper greeting.

"Good evening,' he said politely, giving him that grateful smile again.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what to do. He had never so much as seen a situation as domestic as this, even when he was a boy. John had found a mug that didn't contain one of Sherlock's mould experiments and was periodically sipping steaming tea from it as if he had always been there. When it became clear that Sherlock wasn't going to respond, he turned back to the book.

"This is really fascinating,' John said, pointing towards the page he was currently reading on foxgloves, 'I never knew that household plants could be so dangerous."

He let out a small chuckle, surprising Sherlock.

"You don't think it's incredibly dangerous?' he asked with a sneer.

"On the contrary,' John said, looking back over at Sherlock, 'I find it very interesting. As someone who used to practice in medicine, it's stuff that could be worth knowing."

There was a small and very awkward pause.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?' Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself.

John looked incredibly taken aback.

"Er, Afghanistan,' he replied, looking uncertain, 'How did you...?"

"Know?' Sherlock finished, finally deciding to take a seat instead of awkwardly standing in the doorway, gaining confidence with every step he took before he flopped as graciously as he could onto the sofa, stretching out his body, 'I didn't know, I observed."

Sherlock listed off his deductions, waiting for the moment when John would either walk out or walk over and punch him in the face. When he had finished telling him the significance of his tan lines and his psychosomatic limp, John continued to stare at him in disbelief.

"That was amazing,' he said slowly, looking down at his leg and then back to Sherlock, 'How..."

"I told you before, I observe,' Sherlock said, then added, 'But thank you. That's not normally what people say."

"What do they normally say?' John asked curiously.

"Piss off,' Sherlock replied, smiling at the memories.

The two continued to sit in a slightly more comfortable atmosphere than what was present before, Sherlock with his hands steepled in front of his face thinking about how he was supposed to find a serial killer in a whole city while John continued reading. Eventually Sherlock realised that he would need his photos to be more productive. He entered his room and almost instantly, his phone began to buzz. He picked it up and as soon as he saw it was an unknown caller, answered it.

"Why did you go and find me a roommate?' he hissed into the phone.

Moriarty laughed on the other end of the phone.

"I thought it would be interesting,' he purred over the phone, 'Don't worry love, I think he's perfect. Perfectly ordinary. I just thought it would be funny for you to explain your habits to someone so...unsuspecting."

Sherlock sighed heavily.

"What did you need from me?' he asked, changing the subject entirely.

"I need you to go out tonight,' Moriarty said, sounding serious, 'Go find Molly Hooper for me, I owe her a favour. I think she wants to redeem it."

Sherlock groaned.

"Come on Sherlock, you know she has her uses,' Moriarty said, in a whiney voice, 'Please? I'll give you another clue?"

"I can hardly refuse, can I,' Sherlock said reluctantly, not wanting to cheat but wanting his supply more, 'I'll go..."

"Thanks love, kisses!' Moriarty said and then the line was dead.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes as he opened his wardrobe and pulled out his purple shirt that he reserved for occasions such as this. Molly Hooper was a clearly infatuated girl who had no idea he was a serial killer, just that he worked for Moriarty like she did. She tended to fawn over Sherlock, awkwardly trying to suggest dates and times they could meet up in a way that was horribly mundane. However, as Moriarty had said, she did have her uses.

Sherlock finished getting dressed, sprayed himself with a little bit of cologne, tousled his hair as artfully as he could and left his room, only pausing to say a quick goodbye to John who was still sat in the arm chair, reading. John sent him a quick wave and Sherlock left, walking into the cool night air.

**A/N: Felt inspired and decided to write more. Please review if you like it or have anything constructive to say! Thank you for reading.**


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